Pony

by R. J. Palacio

  “Wait, Marshal Farmer. Look!” I cried, pulling Pony to a quick stop. I jumped down excitedly and ran over to the base of a tree where two little songbird eggs lay unbroken on some bracken. I held them up for him to see. “One for you and one for me!”

  “Fine, fine, let’s go.” He snapped his fingers at me impatiently.

  I carefully put the little eggs in my coat pocket and hopped back on Pony.

  “What did you mean before, by the way?” he said after a few minutes, looking at me sideways as we rode. “Your brush with lightning. What does that mean?”

  “Oh. I got struck by a lightning bolt a couple of years ago,” I answered without any flourish.

  He snorted again, shaking his head. Then he spurred his mare to go faster.

  “It’s true!” I called out after him, kneeing Pony to catch up. “It left a mark on my back. I can show you when we make camp later.”

  “No, kid, it’s fine.” He didn’t even look my way when he said this.

  “Pa says it means I’m lucky,” I added.

  “Lucky?” he hissed, and suddenly all the mirth in his voice was gone. “You’re out here in the middle of nowhere, chasing a band of outlaws. How’s that lucky?”

  “Well. Finding you was lucky, wasn’t it?”

  He was his old muffled self again. Face-forward in the saddle. Mouth twisting down at the sides.

  “How about you give your mouth a rest, all right?” he murmured. “Never knew anyone who could talk as much as you do!”

  And that was the end of our conversation for the rest of the day.

  2

  WE MADE CAMP SHORTLY BEFORE DUSK. Marshal Farmer sat down with a groan, his back against a large tree, while I went about making the fire to boil the eggs, which I had carefully candled. My hunger had caught up to me finally. I was feeling genuine pangs in my sides now, under my ribs. My head was sappy. I watched the eggs cook and my mouth watered.

  This was now the end of our third day together in the Woods.

  The marshal and I sat in silence, as usual, on opposite sides of the fire. I resolved that tonight I would not start up any conversation with him at all. I’d had enough of his barbs about my talkativeness. If he wanted to talk, let him do it. I gazed at the fire while he pulled out his canteen and took several long drinks. I daresay he must have had a dozen bottles of his “nectar” stored in his poke bag, the way that canteen never seemed to run dry.

  I think maybe he knew I was planning on not talking tonight, because he kept eyeing me as I cooked the eggs, like he was itching for me to speak up. Which I wasn’t about to do.

  Finally, as he was lighting his pipe, he broke the silence.

  “You know, your talking about your pa before,” he said, “it got me thinking some.”

  I stoked the fire, kept my face still.

  “You sure he didn’t know any of those men who came for him?” he continued.

  I could feel my throat tighten. “I’m sure.”

  He nodded, raking his fingers through his beard. His whole body, in the demi-light of the fire, seemed to disappear into the tree trunk he was leaning on. “I’m just asking because that Mac Boat was a clever fellow. He’d have been interested in that chemical stuff you were talking about earlier.”

  I hated myself for having prattled on about any of that.

  “Did I even tell you what Mac Boat did?” he queried.

  “Just that he was a counterfeiter.”

  “That’s what he was,” he blurted. “It’s not what he did. Want me to tell you?”

  I lifted my shoulders to my ears, like I didn’t care one way or another.

  “The man took your pa. You’re not even curious?”

  “I never said he took my pa,” I answered quickly. “Just that Rufe Jones mentioned his name, that’s all.”

  “I’m just surprised at your lack of curiosity.”

  “Fine, then. Tell me.”

  He rearranged himself on the tree, like he was getting ready to tell a long story.

  “You ever hear of the Orange Street Gang?” he asked, pointing his pipe at me. “No. Of course you haven’t. The Orange Street Gang was the biggest counterfeiting ring in New York. This is going way back, of course, before you were born. They had operations running from the Five Points all the way up to Canada, that’s how big they were. Anyway, Mac Boat came up in the Orange Street Gang.”

  “All right.” Again I shrugged, trying to feign indifference.

  “Now, the authorities had been after this gang for years,” he continued, enjoying the telling of this story enormously. “And one day, out of the blue, they got a tip about a big exchange going down. That’s when counterfeit notes get swapped out for real money. So, they got a huge posse together. Sheriffs, policemen, marshals. About twenty lawmen in all. Surrounded the headquarters on Orange Street. There was a big gunfight. Six lawmen were killed. But by the end of the day, they got them all. The whole gang either killed or arrested—except for one. Want to know who?”

  He looked at me, eyes bulging eagerly.

  “Mac Boat,” I answered reluctantly.

  “That’s right,” he said, taking another long whiff of his pipe. “And to this day, no one knows how he did it. Not only did he get away from the lawmen that day, but he made off with a trunk full of gold coins. Twenty thousand dollars’ worth of newly minted Liberty Heads.”

  I could not help but gasp. “Twenty thousand dollars? Where’d he go with all that money?”

  Marshal Farmer leaned back. “Nobody knows,” he answered. “The gold coins never made it back into circulation. They might be buried somewhere. Or melted into gold brick. He could’ve taken them with him to Scotland, which is where he was from. Truth is, no one knows what happened to Mac Boat. It’s like he disappeared into thin air. That’s why when you mentioned his name to me, out of nowhere, my ears perked up. It’s all very mysterious, don’t you think?”

  I looked down at the fire. I cannot say what I was thinking, for I myself did not know.

  “It made me realize,” the marshal continued, “if Mac Boat is in cahoots with the men I’m pursuing, there’s a good chance I might solve the mystery of that twenty thousand dollars when I catch them. That would be a real feather in my cap, wouldn’t it?”

  The boiled eggs were ready. The truth is, I had lost my appetite. I took the bowl off the fire and spooned one egg out of the water with a forked stick, not from any desire to eat, but to keep myself from looking at the marshal.

  As I peeled the egg, I could feel the marshal’s eyes glowering at me.

  “It’s not the reward money I’m after, mind you,” he continued. “I’m after these fellas to settle a score, that’s all. A few years back, my partner was killed by the head of this particular ring, a man by the name of Roscoe Ollerenshaw, and I—”

  “That’s the name,” I said, looking up quickly.

  “What’s that?”

  “That’s the name I couldn’t remember the other day. That’s the man who sent Rufe Jones to get my pa. Not Mac Boat.”

  “Roscoe Ollerenshaw? You sure?”

  “Certain of it.”

  “Well, don’t that beat all,” he hissed, scratching his cheek. “That’s the man I’ve been after for years now! Swore on my partner’s grave I’d find him someday. I’ll be darned!”

  As he was saying this, I bit into the top of the peeled egg. Then I immediately spat it out, stifling the urge to throw up.

  Marshal Farmer grinned.

  “It’s a wild egg, son,” he tittered softly.

  “But I candled it!”

  “Sometimes you can’t tell it’s pipping until you take the first bite. I figured you knew that.”

  “No, I didn’t know that!” I replied bitterly, taking a big sip of water from my
canteen while hurling the egg into the fire.

  “Try the other one,” he said. “It might be fine.”

  I threw the other egg into the fire, too, and wrapped my arms around my knees.

  “If you’re really hungry,” he offered, “you can always dig for cutworms. They don’t taste half bad if you fry them on a stick.”

  “I’m not hungry!”

  “Up to you.” He took his canteen out and started drinking from it. “Anyway, what I was saying before—”

  “Look, if you don’t mind!” I interrupted, for I felt like I really might retch. “I don’t want to talk about these things anymore. I don’t want to hear about gunfights and posses and counterfeiters. I just want to go to sleep now. That all right with you?”

  The fire sputtered.

  “Fair enough,” he replied, amused. “But throw some wood on the fire before you turn in, will you?”

  I rolled my eyes, threw a few large sticks at the cracklings, and then laid out the saddle blanket.

  “Good night,” I said, curling onto my side, away from the fire.

  He burped. “Hey, let me ask you one more thing.” His voice was a bit skewed, his tone mischievous.

  I groaned. For some reason, I knew exactly what he was going to ask. “What.”

  He took a second to swallow his drink. “Why’d you call him Mittenwool, anyway? What kind of name is that? Why not Tom? Or Frank?”

  “I didn’t call him anything. That’s his name.”

  “That’s the kind of name a little kid would make up. Like Penny Doll. Or Lumber Jack.”

  I finally turned around to look at him. “What kind of man lets a boy bite into a pipped egg? That’s what you should be asking yourself!”

  “Hee-hee-hee! The kind of man who figures a boy with a ghost knows what’s what in the world! I assumed your invisible friend was looking out for you, making sure you didn’t eat half-cooked chickabiddies.”

  I narrowed my eyes at him. “Well, my invisible friend isn’t here right now. And you want to know why? Because he doesn’t like you, Marshal Farmer! Not one bit! And I can’t say I blame him.”

  I hadn’t realized just how much fury was in my voice until he looked at me, his eyebrows raised high, his lips closed tight. Then he let out the biggest laugh I’d heard out of him yet. He cackled so hard that it ended up making him cough.

  I just plopped back down on the blanket.

  “I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself,” I said, rolling over on my side.

  “No, kid,” he answered, laughter still in his voice. “Please, I’m just having a little fun with you, that’s all. Don’t be like that.”

  “I sure as heck don’t think you’re funny,” I shot back from under the blanket.

  “Don’t be mad, kid. It’s just old Marshal Farmer having himself a little laugh. Truth is, I’ve been on my own for so long, I think I plumb forgot how to be around people.”

  “The only reason I’m here with you is because you’re helping me find my pa. That’s the only reason.”

  “I know, kid.”

  “And I don’t care one iota whether you believe me or not,” I continued. “Not about lightning bolts or ghosts or anything at all. Pa always says, The truth is the truth. Doesn’t matter what other people believe. So you go ahead and believe anything you’d like, Marshal Farmer. Have yourself a little laugh. I don’t care in the least. I’m going to sleep now. Good night!”

  The fire crackled and its warmth spread across my back. A few seconds passed.

  “He sounds like a good man, your pa,” Marshal Farmer said gently.

  I swallowed hard. “Best man there is.”

  “I’m going to find him for you, kid. I promise you that.”

  He sounded like he really meant it. I didn’t answer him.

  “Good night, kid.”

  I didn’t answer him.

  3

  MY MIND WANDERED IN CIRCLES after that. Marshal Farmer, in his inimitable way, had sparked little fires inside my head a hundred times hotter than the campfire at my back. Thoughts swirled like smoke. My head ached.

  Mittenwool.

  Pa told me it was one of the first words out of my mouth when I was a baby. Not Pa. Not goo-goo. But Mittenwool. How peculiar I must’ve seemed to Pa back then. I can’t imagine what he thought. But he always made it seem so ordinary. Never once gave me grief about it. Never once made me feel foolish, or doubtful.

  It’s not that I haven’t pondered the mystery of Mittenwool before, of course. I may be young, but I am curious, too. And while I’ve come to accept the unknowables of our world with all due respect, I was always reasonable enough to form the questions for which I had no answers. I even directed these queries to Mittenwool on occasion, as I’ve mentioned, but he was ever vague. He doesn’t know beans about himself, truth be told. And there’s no rhyme or reason to the little he does know. The rules of chess. A dislike of pears. His disdain for shoes. The only thing he knows for sure is that he doesn’t know anything for sure.

  This is what I have come to believe: some souls are ready to depart the world, and some are not. That’s all there is to it. The ones who are, like my mother, they just go. But the ones who aren’t, they linger. Maybe their deaths came too suddenly, so they attach themselves to the place where they last remember being alive. Something familiar. Where their bones rest. Or maybe they’re waiting for someone. They have unfinished business. Something they want to see through. And when they do see it through, they move on, just like Mittenwool said.

  As to why I can see them and others can’t, that I don’t know. I remember my surprise as a youngster when I first realized that other people couldn’t see Mittenwool. How can that be? He is so vivid to me! I can hold his hand! I can see his teeth when he laughs! His clothes have wrinkles! His fingernails get dirty! He is real as real can be. Flesh and blood. How can people not see him? How can Pa not see him? It seemed impossible to me.

  Nor was he the only ghost I’d ever seen. There were always others, at the edges of my vision. Fleeting shadows in Boneville. Figures lurking behind trees. I would shut my eyes to them, though. I didn’t want to see what I couldn’t unsee.

  It was never like that with Mittenwool. There wasn’t a moment in my life when he wasn’t there. Like a big brother. My unceasing companion.

  As to why he came to me in the first place, how we are connected—that is what I may never know. I suppose that’s the way it is with everyone in life. Every day, people pass each other on the street, and they have no idea if they’re connected in any way. If maybe their grandmothers knew each other once. It doesn’t occur to the lady buying sugar in the mercantile that the stranger in front of her is a distant cousin. Folks just don’t think that way. They don’t wonder when they meet each other, Did our ancestors know each other? Did they fight each other, perhaps? Did they love each other? Back in ancient times, when tribes of people roamed the desert, were we kin? Heaven knows the connections that bind us! And if that is the way it is with the living, then that is the way it must be for the dead, too. The mysteries that govern us, govern them as well. If life is a journey to the great unknown, then death must be a journey, too. And while some people, like my mama, might know exactly where they’re going, other people might not. Maybe they meander a little, not sure where they’re headed, or feel a bit lost. Maybe they need a map, like foreigners in a new country. They’re looking for landmarks. A compass. Instructions on where to go. Maybe Mittenwool is just traveling through, and his time with me is a stop on the road for him.

  I simply don’t know.

  But I have made my peace with everything I don’t know. I have made my peace with all the laws of physics that are broken, and the unnatural biologies at play, and the inconsistent proofs of Mittenwool’s existence. I have made my peace with the delicate log
ic of his Being and all its fragile manifestations. The only thing I do know, with absolute certainty, is that he has always been there for me. And that’s all I need to know.

  So if old Marshal Farmer wants to have himself a good laugh over it, what is it to me? Let him laugh. Doesn’t matter to me what he believes. The truth is the truth, like Pa says. That’s all there is to it.

  This is what I told myself as the campfire warmed my back and the night-side of the world echoed in the dark. The truth is the truth. And that soothed me like a balm.

  It was the other part of my conversation with Marshal Farmer that kept me up, though. The one having to do with Mac Boat and a trunk full of gold coins. That was what my mind could not quiet, what my heart could not put to rest. Those were the thoughts that kept floating around in my head now, bumping into one another like moths inside a lamp. It was a whole other kind of unknowable.

  I suppose that somewhere in my heart of hearts, I might have known the truth. Or believed I would find it on the other side of these Woods. But the heart is a mysterious country. You can travel thousands of miles, over strange lands, and still never find anything as unknowable as love.

  4

  WE GOT AN EARLY START the next morning. It was brisk and windy. I was tired and testy, for lack of sleep.

  “A storm is coming,” Marshal Farmer said.

  I glanced up. The day looked cloudless to me, but I wasn’t going to waste my time disagreeing.

  “Will we reach the ravine today?” I asked.

  He grunted something. Could have been yes or could have been no. I did not bother responding.

  It was now my fourth day in the Woods. Did a part of me think, Well, if I’d just stayed home and waited, Pa would’ve been home in a few days, anyway? Did a part of me think, Maybe if I’d listened to Mittenwool, I would’ve avoided the mosquitoes and the hunger, and the sore bones from riding all day, and the memories of bleeding dead people? Yes, I did think these things. But I also thought, Forward motion is forward motion. There is no turning back the clock.